Ancient Vow
by Athers
Summary: Just what was Methos' role within the horsemen?
1. Revelation 6:2

Ancient Vow

Disclaimer: No harm, no foul - I don't own the characters, I don't make any money out of writing this, it's purely for enjoyment.

This is for those on the Methos/Slash list who were debating Methos' role within the Horsemen. What can I say - I got inspired g. It hasn't been beta'd in the strictest sense of the word, but it has been read by the wonderful Sonia and Anthea (danke, merci, gratzi, spaseba, cheers m'dears g). All mistakes, errors and slaughter of the English language are my fault - but if it doesn't make sense, blame Sonia and Anthea eg 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Revelation 6:2

  
  
  


_And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to conquer.  
Revelation 6:2_

  
  
  
  
  
  


***MacLeod's Barge, February 1997***

MacLeod was just preparing to settle down for the evening when he felt the approach of another Immortal. With a groan and a grimace, he reached for the dragon headed Katana, hoping – praying almost – that whoever this Immortal was, they were just simply passing.

No such luck. The barge gave a gentle roll as someone stepped onto the gangplank. After what seemed an eternity to the waiting Scot, there was a tentative tap on the door. Enemies, MacLeod decided, were not so polite – they tended to just simply kick the door in. Still, given Amanda had left Paris, caution was the better part of valour.

"Who is it?"

The door pushed open. "Me?" The distinctively accented voice belonged to the oldest Immortal. 

"Methos?!" MacLeod could barely believe it. Ever since...well ever since they had got back from Bordeaux, the ancient Immortal had been doing his best to avoid MacLeod – something that MacLeod had mixed feelings about. On the one hand, it meant he didn't have to try and resolve his conflicting feelings about Methos and his role within the Horsemen. On the other hand, conflicting feelings or no, MacLeod found he was missing the verbal sparring and the general companionship.

"I know...I'm probably the last person you want to see right now...but...ah..." The explanation came to a halt as Methos suddenly clamped his jaw shut to hold in a groan of pain.

"Forget that!" MacLeod released the Katana and swiftly crossed the barge to help the other Immortal in.

Once into the light, MacLeod could see the damage. The eldest's clothing was shredded and caked in blood – most of it still wet – and sticking out from his lower back, just shy of having hit the spine, was a crossbow quarrel. The Scot sucked in a horrified breath. A lesser Immortal would have probably already been dead. Judging by the pallor beneath the dirt and blood on Methos' face, it was will alone that was keeping him alive.

"Methos we need to get that out," MacLeod stated, indicating the quarrel.

"Do it. Please."

The words were gritted out between clenched teeth. A terse nod met them. Carefully, MacLeod helped Methos to lie on the couch, then after allowing the ancient a moment to prepare, MacLeod pulled the bolt free. There was a brief grimace of more pain, then the old one finally succumbed to the pain, and slid into unconsciousness.

Over the next two hours, MacLeod watched over the ancient Immortal as he slid between coma and babbling unconsciousness. In the raving moments, the Scot could make out snatches of what was being said:

"No...no please... I can't... Just a man...please don't... Please don't... I couldn't... I don't want it... I'm not worthy..."

Not worthy of what? Part of MacLeod wanted to know. The rest of him – the parts that had such a hard time accepting the Horsemen – was convinced that Methos could be worthy of nothing. Increasingly though it was the majority feeling, the Scot began to wonder more and more about what Methos was raving about.

"Please...don't make me...please... I don't want to be like them...not even for you...please...no..."

The words became incoherent – and possibly ceased to be in English, not that MacLeod could tell – and moments later, Methos slid back into the quieter, if more disconcerting, comatose state.

More time slid passed as MacLeod watched over the oldest Immortal. Dawn was beginning to break as finally Methos regained consciousness.

"You're back, then," said MacLeod neutrally, as Methos finally moved himself from the dead sprawl into a more comfortable position – although still horizontal on the couch.

"Yeah." Methos looked uneasy. "Look...I shouldn't... I..." He started to sit up, only to find MacLeod's hand gently forcing him to lie back.

"Methos – at least wait until you're fully recovered before you go. You're not in a state to walk – and I'll bet your car isn't parked on the quay...even if I was prepared to let you drive, which I'm not."

Methos closed his eyes. "You win, MacLeod."

MacLeod's mouth quirked up in approximation of amusement. "First time for everything, huh?" The amusement faded. "What happened last night Methos?" he asked softly.

"Long story."

MacLeod's jaw tightened. "No. I'm *not* going to let you fob me off, Methos. What happened? You looked like you'd taken on..."

"A gang and come off worst. Who says barbarians are unintelligent?" The detachment to the words was pure Methosian; the barb was classic Methos. And yet...

"Methos?"

A hazel eye opened and regarded MacLeod. "I took on a gang and came off worst. At least," he added, closing the eye again and snorting, "*they* think I came of worst."

"Methos...?" MacLeod shook his head, trying to understand. "You took on a *gang*?"

"Is there an echo in here or something?" Methos shot back.

"Why?"

The single syllable caused the ancient Immortal to suddenly tense. "Why what?"

MacLeod felt exasperation rise. "Why take on a gang? Why risk yourself like that? Do you *know* how close that crossbow bolt was to paralysing you?"

"Miscalculation on my part," said Methos coolly, reopening both eyes and pinning MacLeod with the expression on them. "I didn't dive fast enough."

Incredulity swept through MacLeod. "Didn't dive... Methos?!" Slowly, the Scot organised his thoughts into some kind of coherent order. "Why?"

A strange expression crossed Methos' face. "I had to."

"What are you trying to prove? That you've changed? That you're not Death any more? I *know* that...I've known that for weeks..."

Methos shook his head. "This isn't about proving anything to anyone. And contrary to popular rumour," he added, "your opinion isn't the most important thing in the world to me. This has nothing to do with you."

MacLeod felt a brief spurt of anger at the words, which he fought down. He wanted to get to the bottom of this – not drive Methos even further away. "Look...can you just tell me why?"

"Like I said," Methos replied, tiredness suddenly bleeding into his voice, "it's something I have to do... It's...a vow."

Just when MacLeod thought his belief couldn't be pushed any further... Methos' words were even more puzzling. "A *vow*?"

"Oh yes, I forgot. A man with no honour couldn't possibly keep a vow. Silly me," Methos snapped. He moved to sit up – and this time didn't let MacLeod's hand stop him. "Well, I feel fine now – so I'll just be..."

"Who to?"

"Be on my..."

"Methos, *who* to?"

"You know I was a Horseman, Mac," Methos stated, getting to his feet. "Well...you could say I was the first horseman."

"I don't..."

"Revelation, chapter six. Read it."

Then before the stunned Highlander could do, or say anything else, Methos was gone. It took a few moments for MacLeod to regain his senses. When he did, he dived across to his bookshelves to find his copy of the Bible and looked up the reference Methos had given him. When he found it, he recognised it as the description of the coming of the Four Horsemen.

"What...?"

A frown creased MacLeod's face for a moment. He knew Methos had been a Horseman – knew all about the ancient's time as a harbinger of death – so... No. Methos had said the first... Death was the fourth. Bemusement turned to astonishment as he read the second verse.

The second, third and fourth Horsemen from came from hell to wreck havoc, but the first... The first was sent from God to be His sword on earth.


	2. Alleyways Gangs and Crossbows

Ancient Vow

Disclaimer: No harm, no foul - I don't own the characters, I don't make any money out of writing this, it's purely for enjoyment.

This is for those on the Methos/Slash list who were debating Methos' role within the Horsemen. What can I say - I got inspired g. It hasn't been beta'd in the strictest sense of the word, but it has been read by the wonderful Sonia and Anthea (danke, merci, gratzi, spaseba, cheers m'dears g). All mistakes, errors and slaughter of the English language are my fault - but if it doesn't make sense, blame Sonia and Anthea eg 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Alleyways Gangs and Crossbows

  
  
  


_He rides on a white horse; he wears a golden crown. Three Horsemen come from Hell, but he is the sword of God - the power of the Kingdom of Heaven.   
Unknown_

  
  
  
  
  
  


MacLeod stared at the book in his hands, eyes barely seeing the text. Methos as the first horseman. Why? Nowrong question. Not why, but how? That was the question that bothered MacLeod more than anything else. How had his friendhow had Methos become the Hand of God?

Almost under their own volition, MacLeod's legs took him out of the barge, but Methos was long gone. Damn. And it wasn't as if he knew where the ancient was living these days either. Damn. Then a wave of tiredness hit the Scot and he remembered that he had now been awake more than twenty-four hours. Damn.

Reluctantly, he obeyed the demands of his tired body and went to lie down, fully intending to sleep. But slumber was a very long time in coming. Too many questions were crowding his mind.

*************************************

It was well into the evening when MacLeod awoke. What sleep he had managed to have had been fitful at best. He felt decidedly unrefreshed, but he had to try and get to the bottom of this mystery and he head a feeling the only way to do that would be to try and track down the irritating eldest Immortal.

With that decided, he got out of bed, showered, changed and left the barge. He had no firm idea of where he was going, but given what Methos had said that morning – about having taken on a gang – he knew where he could start.

Two hours later and MacLeod was beginning to think that this had been a bad idea. He was just beginning to decide his best bet was to look for Methos in a bar, when he realised that he had wandered absently down a blind alley. Turning, he found the entry blocked by a group of six or eight youths.

In the half-light of the street lighting, MacLeod could make out that at least four of the youths were wielding lengths of pipe or baseball bats. The leader, though, had a crossbow held almost negligently in his hands.

"Eh. Anglais," he spat.

"Ecossais," MacLeod retorted, "and proud of it."

"Bah!" In a flash of motion, the leader brought the crossbow to bear and fired. MacLeod had only a moment to try and avoid the bolt, then it struck him in the gut, forcing itself so far through his stomach that he had no hope of pulling it free.

Pain brought him to his knees. His vision became blurred and filled with black spots as consciousness began to recede. He was aware of the gang approaching and closing in on him. He was vaguely aware of the touch of another Immortal presence. Then consciousness faded altogether.

************************************

The first thing MacLeod realised as he returned was there was a burning pain in his stomach. Pain that was, even as he catalogued it, fading.

"Easy there," commented a distinctive accented voice. Not quite English, not quite Welsh either. Methos.

Struggling, MacLeod forced his eyes to open and focus. "Methos?"

Wry amusement lit the planes of the ancient's face. "Just what were you trying to prove, eh, MacLeod?"

"What was I" MacLeod's eyes widened. "I wasne trying to prove anything!"

"Sure you weren't," Methos stated. Getting to his feet, the ancient walked away to return with a glass of water. "C'mon. Drink – you lost a lot of blood."

MacLeod struggled into a sitting position, and realised he was in Methos' new apartment, sitting on the ancient's bed. Given little option, he obediently drank from the glass that Methos was holding. "What happened?"

"You got hit in the stomach by a crossbow quarrel," Methos replied, setting the glass down. "I found you, pulled it out and brought you back here."

"The gang?"

"They'redealt with."

MacLeod cocked an eyebrow in question. "Dealt with?"

Methos rolled his eyes. "Are we back playing at echoes, MacLeod? That's what I just said."

"Not good enough. I want to know what you're doing."

"At the moment," Methos answered caustically, "answering silly questions asked by an equally silly Scot. Just what were you doing in that alley anyway?"

"Looking for you."

"I'm flattered." Methos shook his head. "Why would I have been in a blind alley in central Paris?"

"You tell me, Methos," MacLeod replied. "That *was* the gang you had atussle with last night, wasn't it?" Methos made a non-committal noise. "So?"

"Like I said this morning, it's a vow."

Methos made to walk away, but MacLeod snagged his wrist. "Uh-uh, Methos. You've gotta do better than that."

"Mac-Leod," Methos growled. "Let go of my wrist. I don't owe you anything. Especially not after this evening's little escapade."

"Mebe, mebe no'," MacLeod answered, the Scots burr increasing, "but Ah'm worried about ye."

"Why? I didn't think you cared a damn what happened to me. I thought we were 'through'," Methos replied, throwing the hastily spoken words of more than four months earlier straight into MacLeod's face.

"What was Ah supposed te say? Ye were pushing me away."

"For all the good it did me," Methos snapped. "Now let go of my wrist."

"What were ye doing last night?"

"Gods, MacLeod, you are starting to sound like a cracked record. I thought we covered this already."

"OK. Ye were taking on a gang. Why?"

"Because," Methos retorted, trying to pull his wrist free. MacLeod merely tightened his grip.

"No' gud enough, Methos. Why?"

"Damn you MacLeod – this is none of your business."

"Yer mae friend, Methos" MacLeod began.

  
"Could have fooled me."

Stalemate. Still MacLeod retained his grip on the ancient Immortal's wrist, not tight enough to snap the bones, but more than tight enough to prevent him from twisting out of the hold.

"If yer no' mae friend," said MacLeod eventually, "why did ye come to the barge last night?"

"I"

"Ye trusted me te keep watch over ye. Why?"

"I"

"May Ah guess?" Methos gestured with his free hand. "Even though Ah've been a complete ass over everything, ye still trust me enough to know Ah will keep watch over ye."

MacLeod watched Methos' face carefully, looking for any hint that he was close to the truth. When the expression shuttered into blankness, the Scot knew he was absolutely right.

"Your point?" Methos hissed.

"Mae point is, ye trust me with your life, so why can't ye trust me with *this*?"

"Because you won't understand."

"And yer so sure o' that?"

"Yes. I am." Methos finally broke the grip around his wrist.

"How did et happen?"

Methos blinked, puzzled. "What?"

" 'And Ah saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to conquer.' Ah read the Bible chapter, Methos. How did et happen?"

  
  
  



	3. Enlil and the Vow

Ancient Vow

Disclaimer: No harm, no foul - I don't own the characters, I don't make any money out of writing this, it's purely for enjoyment.

This is for those on the Methos/Slash list who were debating Methos' role within the Horsemen. What can I say - I got inspired g. It hasn't been beta'd in the strictest sense of the word, but it has been read by the wonderful Sonia and Anthea (danke, merci, gratzi, spaseba, cheers m'dears g). All mistakes, errors and slaughter of the English language are my fault - but if it doesn't make sense, blame Sonia and Anthea eg 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Enlil and the Vow

  
  
  


_And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to conquer.  
Revelation 6:2_

  
  
  
  
  
  


For a moment, MacLeod wondered if the skittish, ancient Immortal was going to run from his own apartment. The flight impulse in Methos' bearing was so clear.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Methos finally said, but the words were false and jerky, almost as if it was a conditioned response.

"Methos, please. Ye told me to read that Bible chapter; told me ye were the first Horseman... Ah want to understand this. Please."

"Like I've already told you, it was a vow," Methos snapped, springing away from the bed before MacLeod could stop him.

"Who to? And why? As penance?"

That got a bitter snort of laughter from the eldest Immortal. "Penance? Not hardly."

"Then what?"

This time, the silence between them stretched out infinitely. It grew until it was almost a living, breathing entity, filling the room. It grew to the point that when Methos finally broke it, MacLeod had a difficult job hearing his words for a start.

"I was found...as a baby, in the waste land between Nippur and the Zagros Mountains. The man who found me, a farmer - so I was told - took me to Nippur and presented me to the Priests of Enlil. I grew up in the temple, in service of Enlil. When I came of age, I was supposed to become a full member of the priesthood, and my days were supposed to be lived out in the temple."

"What happened?"

"Enlil. The night before my sixteenth birthday...when I would have come of age... Enlil came to my cell in the temple..."

***The Temple of Enlil, Nippur - c.3000BC***

The noise was so soft that at first the boy did not recognise it as such. But gradually he became aware that it was footsteps, approaching his door. It was late in the night and the priests were not normally abroad. The boy waited silent in the darkness. The steps reached his cell. There was a moment's hesitation, and then the door opened.

"Little one? Are you awake?"

It was an unfamiliar voice, but the boy felt compelled to answer. "I am, sir."

"Good. You must come with me, little one - I have a task for you."

"A...a task?" The boy's voice was hesitant. "I am to become a priest on the morrow..."

"And a fine priest you would have made, but that is not to be your destiny, little one. Now, hush, and dress. You must come with me." Hesitancy and the darkness made the boy's movements slow, but the waiting man was patient. Finally the boy was ready, and in silence, the two left the temple compound.

For more than an hour, they journeyed, leaving Nippur far behind. The boy was deeply curious about this all, but something about his companion brooked no questions. Finally, as the dawn was breaking, the boy and his companion came to a halt. They had made good ground and were all but into the foothills of the mountains.

"Do you recognise this place, little one?" the man asked. The boy shook his head. "This was where you were found as a babe." The boy said nothing, puzzled by this. "Come, boy, you have a tongue - do you have no questions for me?"

The boy turned and looked at the man. "Who are you, sir?"

The man smiled. "I am the one you serve. Enlil, Lord of Earth, Air and Heaven." The boy gasped and dropped to his knees in supplication before the man he served. Enlil gave a soft laugh. "Calm yourself, little one - you need not prostrate yourself before me. I know your heart and mind - you are a loyal servant and I have a task for you."

"A...task?" the boy echoed, not moving from his bowed position.

"Your life stretches out before you, and a long life it will be, for you are of the Gods, little one."

"I...of the Gods?" The boy's puzzlement was clear. "I am just a humble boy. Nothing more."

Enlil laughed softly once more. "You were not borne of mortal flesh, little one. Nor, truly are you one of the Gods - no, you are more Immortal than they."

"How?" The boy's voice creaked with fear at the pronouncement.

"In time, the Gods that you know will die, and new ones shall come. But you shall remain."

"How is it that I remain? How is it that the Gods will die?"

"That, is a question for another time, little one. And in truth, the Gods will not die, they will simply be known by other names, but it will seem to you as such."

The boy shook his head, confused by all this. "I don't understand."

"And nor should you - it is one of the mysteries of the universe, little one. Now, come to me and I will tell you of your task."

  
Nervously, the boy stood, and walked towards Enlil. "I am yours to command."

"No need to be afraid of me, little one, for I will not harm you. I wish you to carry out a great task for me. One that will be yours and yours alone, from the time you leave me until the time you should die. But before you may take it up, and before I may tell you what this task is, there are a great many things you must learn, little one..."

"He taught me about Immortality. How to use a sword, how to fight...how to survive. Things I needed to know, but didn't realise I needed to know. Living in the temple hadn't prepared me for any kind of life outside the temple...I wasn't supposed to *have* a life outside the temple... But Enlil had decided otherwise..." Methos trailed off.

MacLeod seized on the pause. "You mean to say that Enlil...that you met a God?" The note of his voice was half way between awe and incredulity.

Methos looked across at him. "No... I don't know. He was a powerful man...and a very wise one... I think he was older then, than I am *now*...but..." Methos shrugged helplessly.

"So what happened?"

"He taught me for a year...or maybe two...not sure how long really. On my...seventeenth...eighteenth..." another shrug, "birthday, he told me: The time has come, little one. I knew what that meant. He first gave me my first death." Methos sighed. "When I can round, though..."

"What?" MacLeod asked, even as Methos shuddered.

"It was bad enough being faced by one God...wizard...wise man - whatever you want to call Enlil. When I revived, I was faced by *three* of them. Enlil, Ninhursag and Inanna."

"You'll have to help me here," MacLeod said, as Methos paused, "my knowledge of ancient mythology is...well..." he shrugged.

"Ninhursag was Enlil's wife and...so say the Mother of the Gods. Inanna was the Goddess of love and war. They...with Enlil were three of the four most powerful Gods in the Pantheon."

"What did they want with you?"

Methos gave a wry smile. "Literally, they wanted someone to do their work. What they wanted was someone who could counteract the works of some of the other Gods, Kings and warlords that were around at the time - as a sort of..." Methos shrugged. "Defender of the weak." He grimaced at the description. "It was a daunting prospect...and it wasn't something I wanted by any stretch of the imagination. But having the three of them there and tell me...I couldn't refuse. They made me take a vow... Not an 'I promise' kind of vow - not even the kind of vow you made to Hideo Koto and his family. It was something more physical than that. I can't forget it...or turn away from it. It's *always* there, in the back of my thoughts."

MacLeod stared at his friend, almost as though he was seeing him for the first time. What burdens had he been forced to carry? "And you've had to carry this on...?" MacLeod started.

"It's been my life's work." Methos pulled another grimace. "All 5000 some odd years. Long beyond the death of Enlil's influence in the world... Which was their intention. The only time this will end is if or when someone takes my head." Bleak humour filled Methos' face. "Why do you think I was so keen for you to take it when Kalas killed Don Saltzer?"

It was MacLeod's turn to shudder as he recalled the night, two years earlier, when the oldest Immortal had tried to give him the edge over Kalas. "Do you still wish I had taken it?"

Methos shook his head. "No - not really. I realised I'd found a kindred soul in you...thought I'd found," Methos amended with an easy shrug. "I guess we can't be all that kindred after all."

MacLeod's expression tinged with regret and embarrassment. "I'm sorry I let you down, Methos," he said.

Methos waved it off. "It's happened before - no doubt it will happen again." The studied unconcern in the words was so transparent MacLeod had little difficulty in seeing through it to the very real sense of hurt.

"Where do the Horsemen fit into this?" Methos gave MacLeod a sharp look but said nothing. "You've told me this much and I've not run screaming into the night, or offered another judgement." Still nothing from the oldest. "Methos, how can I understand if you never tell me the truth?"

"Some things, MacLeod," Methos gritted out, "were not *meant* to be understood."

"The Horsemen were Enlil's idea," MacLeod guessed, ignoring the hint, "weren't they?"

"Mac-Leod," Methos growled.

For a long moment there was silence. MacLeod took in the visual clues in Methos' bearing. The ancient Immortal was visibly angry - the tension radiated from him in waves - but it was not just anger that held his body taut. There was fear in good measure too, and there was just a hint of surprise. The Scot judged his guess about the Horsemen's origins was not all that wide of the mark.

"Methos, last night - you were rambling. You were begging someone not to make you do something."

A dull flush of embarrassment and anger seeped across Methos' face at the words. "Well in *that* case, you seem to have it all figured out. Don't trip on your way out."

It was a dismissal, but MacLeod was going nowhere. "No I don't. I..."

"What do you *want* MacLeod?" Methos yelled. "Someone to come along and tell you 'It's OK - it was all a nightmare, Methos didn't really kill all those people'? That isn't going to happen, because I *did*. No matter which way you turn it, who you blame, it was by my hand that those people died. It was by my hand that Cassandra and countless others suffered fates that were considerably worse than death would have been. You can tell yourself that I was coerced into it if that's what it takes to help you sleep at night, but I wasn't. And what possible reason would Enlil have had for *wanting* the Horsemen?"

"If the vow was as you say it was, and I believe you," MacLeod added, "how could you have been a Horseman if Enlil and the others didn't want it?"


	4. An Ending or a Beginning?

Ancient Vow

Disclaimer: No harm, no foul - I don't own the characters, I don't make any money out of writing this, it's purely for enjoyment.

This is for those on the Methos/Slash list who were debating Methos' role within the Horsemen. What can I say - I got inspired g. It hasn't been beta'd in the strictest sense of the word, but it has been read by the wonderful Sonia and Anthea (danke, merci, gratzi, spaseba, cheers m'dears g). All mistakes, errors and slaughter of the English language are my fault - but if it doesn't make sense, blame Sonia and Anthea eg 

  
  
  
  
  
  


An Ending or a Beginning?

  
  
  


_He rides on a white horse; he wears a golden crown. Three Horsemen come from Hell, but he is the sword of God - the power of the Kingdom of Heaven.   
Unknown_

  
  
  
  
  
  


Methos ignored MacLeod's words. Instead he paced across to the door and opened it. "There's the door - *use* it."

MacLeod groaned. "What is it? Why can't you trust me with this?"

Methos slammed the door again and stalked across to where MacLeod was sitting. Before MacLeod could blink, Methos had him pinned against the wall. "It's not *can't* MacLeod," he hissed out, "it's *won't*. And as for *why*, give me one good reason. After everything you said, give me one good reason why I should."

MacLeod could think of nothing to say.

"I thought so. Get out!" Methos spat, and forcibly propelled MacLeod towards the doorway. The Scot was too stunned to react until they reached the door. Then his self-defence reflexes kicked in, and in a blur of movement, Methos was the one pinned up against the wall.

"Come on Methos, what's it going to hurt to tell me this?"

"Our friendship."

The words were barely audible, and one look into Methos' face told MacLeod that this was the honest truth. There were no masks or facades shielding Methos' insecurities. For a second, MacLeod knew he was looking directly into the heart of the enigma that was Methos. Then with a slam, all the barriers, masks and shielding came down.

"Now *get* *OUT*," Methos gritted out.

Positions were reversed once more as the ancient Immortal took control again. Again, MacLeod found himself being propelled in the direction of the door. In desperation, he attempted to trip Methos, and succeeded.

The ancient lost his balance, and the pair crashed to the ground. For a few moments, the two Immortals grappled together, before finally MacLeod's larger bulk won out and they finished with the Scot pinning Methos' narrower frame to the ground.

"I am *not* running this time, Methos," MacLeod snapped. "I shouldn't have run like I did in Seacouver. I *know* that now."

"Well you had your chance," Methos hissed back.

"I'm *asking* for another." MacLeod softened his expression. "Please?"

Methos' face twisted up into an angry sneer. "The clan chieftain is begging lowly me for another chance?" From somewhere within that narrow frame came a surge of power, and MacLeod found himself pinned hard against the floor. "Tell me this, MacLeod, if none of this had happened, would *I* have got a second chance? Hmm?"

"I..."

Methos' hands roughly grabbed MacLeod's collar. "No, I wouldn't have done, would I? Be honest, MacLeod. In your eyes, I was irredeemable. And you think I'm going to tell you *anything*? Why the hell should I trust you? Why the hell should I trust you with a damn *thing*?"

"Methos..."

"Uh-uh, MacLeod, don't say it," Methos continued, shaking his head. "Because frankly, I won't believe it."

"Methos...please..."

"Please what? Kiss the nightmares goodbye? I *can't*..." Suddenly all the anger and tension bled out of Methos' bearing. "How can I when I can't even get rid of my own?"

Without a word more, Methos slid off the Highlander's prone form and huddled himself into a disconsolate ball. Stunned at the sudden capitulation, it took MacLeod a few moments before he recovered himself enough to sit up.

"Methos?"

Looking across at the dejected form, he could see thin shoulders shaking and a sound reached him - a sob, it sounded like.

"Methos?"

"MacLeod just *go*...please..."

The desolation in the tone tore at MacLeod's heart; while he suspected he wasn't the root cause of it, he knew he was the catalyst, and now - more than ever - he regretted what had occurred in Seacouver. He crawled across to the sobbing - and he was sure now it was sobs that were wracking Methos - huddle and went to put his arm around the trembling shoulders, only for Methos to flinch away.

"Please...*go*."

"Methos...please..."

"Just go." The words were barely above a whisper.

For a long, frozen moment, MacLeod debated with himself as to what he should do. Methos wanted him to leave - had done so for the last fifteen minutes, or so - but intuition told MacLeod that if he left now, it could be the last time he ever saw the ancient Immortal; and he couldn't let that happen. Yet, what choice did he have?

"All right, Methos. I'll go."

As MacLeod stood up, he half hoped that Methos would make some movement to stop him, but the pitiful ball of humanity didn't react. With a heavy heart, MacLeod left the apartment.

*************************************

MacLeod felt listless.

It had been a week since he had left Methos' apartment, and there had been no sight or sound of the old man since. He hadn't seen him. Nor had Joe. Nor had Amanda, who was back in town. The only reason he knew Methos had not simply lit out for parts unknown was word from Joe who - similarly worried - had placed a junior Watcher on alert out side Methos' apartment. The junior had duly reported back that newspapers were disappearing from the doorstep each morning, lights were going on and off behind the blinds and the SUV that Methos currently owned was still parked up outside.

Of course, that was no guarantee. If Methos wanted to fool them into thinking he was still there when in fact he was long gone, the ancient was more than capable; and after all, junior Watchers had to sleep sometimes.

MacLeod had not shared the subject material of the argument with Joe and Amanda - he judged it information that was purely between himself and Methos - but every time he saw either of them, he could feel their disapproval. They had both decided (rightly, MacLeod knew) that Methos' disappearance was his fault - and they were not shy of letting him know. Yet there was nothing he could do about it.

He felt as if there should be. As if there was something he could do that would make things right. But what?

Even as he reached this point in his thoughts, he felt the first touch of an Immortal presence. **Friend or foe?**

Gathering up his katana, MacLeod made his way out of the barge and onto the deck, intent on meeting whoever it was.

"I am Duncan Mac..."

"We know who you are, and we have not come to challenge you."

MacLeod span round and found himself facing three people a man and two women, instead of the one Immortal he had felt. "Who are you?"

"Our names will mean nothing to you," stated the man. "You may call us Anna, Enrique and Natascha - if that makes you feel more comfortable."

Anna, the woman to his right smiled, and MacLeod thought his insides would melt from the sheer dazzling beauty of it. "We are pleased to finally meet you," she said.

"Anna!" complained Natascha. "Leave him alone!"

No sooner had Natascha spoken than the feelings of intense lust and desire lifted from MacLeod's mind, leaving him more than a little stunned.

Enrique glared at both women. "We have come to ask something of you. We need your help."

"Help?"

"We need...a...defender. Not for us, but for those who cannot defend themselves..."

"You're Inanna, Enlil and Ninhursag." MacLeod felt certain of it.

Enrique's eyes widened. "You are too young to know those names."

MacLeod shrugged. "If you are who I think, then you know who my friend is."

"Did I not tell you?" muttered 'Natascha'. "You are correct, Highlander. We are the ancients to whom those names were attached."

MacLeod felt his mouth dry at the thought of standing face to face with three Gods. In a blinding flash, he knew how intimidated Methos must have been all those thousands of years ago - hell, he was feeling intimidated, and he was considerably older now than Methos had been then.

"Whether he knows those names or not, the fact remains," 'Anna' (Inanna, MacLeod guessed) put in, "we need him."

Enrique...Enlil nodded. "Will you help us, Highlander? Become our hand on earth?"

Another of Methos' comments came to MacLeod from that fateful evening. "And what of Methos? He told me his task was done only when someone took his head. If you've killed him..."

Before he could finish his sentence, Enlil and Inanna stepped aside. Behind them, huddled on the deck - in more or less the same posture as MacLeod had last seen him - was Methos. Sobs still shook the slender frame and again MacLeod felt his heart twist at the sight.

"Methos..."

"He cannot hear you," stated Ninhursag. "It is nothing that we have done - not even something that you have done; much as you might wish to call the blame to you. It is a hell of his own making."

The words were so cold they snagged MacLeod's temper. "A hell of his own making? You *forced* him to do your work for *five thousand years*...I don't call that a hell of his own making."

Enlil shook his head. "When you left him, the nightmares came for him; the weight of the memories became too much. It was not your fault - nor truly ours. But what happens to him now is up to you."

MacLeod looked from him to Inanna and Ninhursag. "What options do I have?"

  
"You could turn us aside - that would be your right," said Inanna. "And that would leave your friend vulnerable to the first head hunter of your kind."

"Or you could accept our request, and ensure that your friend is safe," said Ninhursag.

"The choice is yours," concluded Enlil.

"It's no choice at all," MacLeod retorted.

Enlil nodded once. "So be it."

A resonant hum filled MacLeod's ears. It was a noise that filled his - it felt like Cassandra's Voice but the suggestion was far more forceful. And then MacLeod couldn't think anymore. All that existed was the suggestion and what it compelled him to do...

***********************************

Joe and Amanda had been engaging in a debate about blues music when a shell-shocked MacLeod stumbled into Maurice's bar.

"Duncan?"

"Mac?"

The queries came from Immortal and Watcher at the same time.

"Methos is dead."

Four syllables laden with no emotion and every emotion at once. Neither Joe nor Amanda could react to the words - there was no way to react. It was only after the Scot had turned and left once more that either of them wondered 'how'.

************************************

Numbly, MacLeod prowled the streets of Paris. Hundreds upon thousands of new, yet ancient, memories crowded his mind. He finally knew the truth of the Horsemen - they had been a band of petty warlords that the trio of Gods had wanted some control over so as to prevent wholesale genocide. So Methos had been forced to join them, as the strategist. It was thanks to his planning that certain nomadic tribes, settlements and such were left alone to flourish and later produce people who had gone on to shape the world. But in their stead, hundreds upon thousands of others had been killed. And finally MacLeod understood why Methos had never wanted this shade from his past to come to light.

As he prowled, more thoughts filled his mind. Thoughts he recognised as being Methosian. At one time, he would have considered them convoluted and confusing - but now they seemed a natural aspect of his mind. Methos' sarcasm and wit were laid bare to him - and now he knew where the barbs had come from. Knew that the harsh words and spiky personality were the only defensive mechanism available to a man so frequently betrayed by life.

Without really realising it, MacLeod had found himself in the wrong part of Paris. He wanted to get back to the barge - to pack and move on; there was no way he could remain in Paris now - but as he turned to head toward the river, a scream cut through the air.

A sudden burst of a sensation almost like an Immortal presence, but distinctly *not*, raced through him. The Vow. Conscious thought fled - he *had* to help...

************************************

"Well Adam, it's a nice new day, see," the nurse said chattily as she fussed with the curtains. "Looks like we might have a nice spot of sun for St David's Day tomorrow." She turned to the bed, not expecting anything to have changed. The next words out of her mouth were "Doctor you had better get in here!"

On the bed Adam lay, blinking somewhat owlishly.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You're in Cardiff General hospital," the nurse replied as calmly as she could muster.

A frown crossed his face. "I'm...sick?"

"You have been." The nurse could hear the approach of the doctor and the rest of the medical entourage. "But I think you're going to get better now."

"That's good." He smiled. It was such a bright, dazzling and unaffected smile the nurse felt tears prick the backs of her eyelids. "You called me Adam...is that my name?"

Sadly the nurse shook her head. "You don't know yourself?" 

It was his turn to shake his head. "Adam's a nice name...I think I'd like to be called Adam."

The End? 


End file.
